


Cause I Could Go Blind Just Looking at You

by AppleJuiz



Series: just look at you [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Drunk Kissing, Getting Together, Light Angst, Lots of kissing, M/M, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleJuiz/pseuds/AppleJuiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is not a drunk, okay?</p>
<p>Is his relationship with alcohol a smidge unhealthy? Absolutely. But really, who can say they have a perfectly clean relationship with alcohol. </p>
<p>Well, Steve maybe. </p>
<p>Whatever it's not a problem. Some days he just needs a drink. Well, most days, but really it's better that he drinks, otherwise he'd have to think about the things he’s trying to forget through drinking and that is a bad idea. Lesser of two evils and all that nonsense. </p>
<p>Of course the forgetting thing works a helluva lot better if Steve wasn't at the bar with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause I Could Go Blind Just Looking at You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so once again instead of working on an update for a story or doing my stupid homework whose deadline is fast approaching (ugh, why is the summer so short?), I got a really weird idea, word vomited for a few days and ended up with this story that has very little rhyme or reason. 
> 
> Anyway, I will be updating the road back home very soon, and also there will probably be a sequel to this fic because I love giving myself more things to do when I have no time. 
> 
> I hope you like this fic either way and let me know what you think.

Bucky Barnes is not a drunk, okay?

He knows what drunks are like, the ever present stench of alcohol around them, the messy hair, frumpy clothes, the haggard look in their eyes. He's not like that. Yet, an unhelpful little voice in the back of his head reminds him.

Is his relationship with alcohol a smidge unhealthy? Absolutely. But really, who can say they have a perfectly clean relationship with alcohol.

Well, Steve maybe.

Whatever it's not a problem. Some days he just needs a drink. Well, most days, but really it's better that he drinks, otherwise he'd have to think about the things he’s trying to forget through drinking and that is a bad idea. Lesser of two evils and all that nonsense.

Of course the forgetting thing works a helluva lot better if Steve wasn't at the bar with him.

Steve hardly ever goes out drinking with him. If Steve wants to drink they usually stay home, pass their bottle of cheap whiskey back and forth until they're both giggling on the floor, couch cushions all around them, wrapped up like puppies because while Bucky gets cuddly drunk, Steve is a million times worse.

Though Steve usually only drinks when he wants to celebrate, and celebration means cuddles so when Steve stomps into their apartment after a date in a huff and declares he does not want to think about it, and Bucky gently offers, “Do you want to drink about it?”, Steve decides they should go out to a bar instead. Bucky is fine with that, doesn't want to taint the warm happy bliss of whiskey nights.

They end up in a bar on the right side of town not the ones Bucky usually goes to, but there's no way he'd take Steve to one of those bars. He knows Steve wouldn't get angry at him, but that's one too many explanations for tonight.

Steve downs the first two beers in a stony silence, staring at the condensation on the wooden bar while Bucky rambles on about the docks and other filler nonsense. It's only when the third round arrives that he sighs and Bucky stops talking.

“I can't even blame her,” Steve sighs, wrapping his fingers around the new bottle.

“Hey, pal, if she can't see what a catch you are, it's her own loss,” Bucky snaps out, starting on his own drink. He doesn't say that he's almost glad it didn't work out, doesn't tell Steve about the way his chest tightened and his heart dropped when Steve announced that he had a date. He also doesn't say just how fucking angry it makes him when no one sees how perfect Steve is.

This is why he drinks.

“You don't gotta say that for my sake, Buck,” Steve says, pursing his lips.

“When have I ever lied to you, buddy. I mean it, if she can't see a gem when she comes across one, she's probably too dumb for you anyway.”

“She's not dumb,” Steve says, smiling humorlessly. “She thought we were going out as friends.”

“Well, that's not too-”

“She thought you were coming, too,” Steve adds, looking away.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, and chugs the rest of his beer.

He's not sure why he's surprised. It's not like this hasn't happened a million times before, and it's not like he doesn't know he's attractive. He just doesn't get how anyone with half a brain cell could look at the two of them and not see Steve for the absolute slice of perfection he is.

Sure, he's taller, broader from working at the docks, can pull a few lines out of the air to make a dame smile, but there's nothing else. Steve though… God, where to even start. One look at him, the fire in his eyes, his golden hair, his nimble artistic fingers, his gorgeous fucking smile… Bucky finishes off another drink.

“Steve, pal, she's dumber than I thought,” he says, tries not to sound too fucking love struck.

“Nah,” Steve says, shooting a wry, bitter smile Bucky's way. “That's not why I got so upset. That I get.” Bucky opens his mouth to protest. “It's just that everyone this side of the bridge knows you and Mary are practically going steady.”

“No, we aren't,” Bucky rushes out, barely keeping himself from grabbing Steve's hand.   
Mary Spellman… Jesus, if Steve didn't exist (if Bucky was somehow alive and well in a world where Steve didn't exist that is), he could see himself settling down with Mary Spellman.

She was gorgeous, soft curves, legs for days, bouncy blonde curls, and Bucky loved her. Well, love’s too strong to describe it. It's nothing like the soul consuming, heart melting feeling he gets when he looks at Steve. It's more of an admiration: she's the kind of girl with the kind of money to get everything she wants, but beyond that she's got this sparkling on her eyes that can almost rival Steve's, like she can read into your soul, like she could destroy you in a second.

Bucky thinks that's why she likes him, because she can see that he's something she can't get, he already belongs hook, line and sinker, every day until forever, to Steven Grant Rogers, thank you and goodnight. She’ll smirk at him and walk over like she owns every inch of ground she steps on, and she'll lean against him, flirt mercilessly, say things that would bring any other guy in Brooklyn to his knees, and he'll just grin apologetically at her and flirt right back.

“Come on, Buck. Everyone knows you really like her,” Steve says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, nudging Bucky with his elbow. “And she likes you a lot, more than any of the scumbags that bug her.”

Bucky almost winces. Many a times Bucky has had to pull Steve out of fist fights with guys two times his size because one or more of them said something less than savory about Mary Spellman. Not that he really blames Steve, or thinks that Mary isn't able to eviscerate any disrespectful ass that crosses her path.

“You know what, pal,” Bucky sighs. “I think we need some stronger drinks.” Steve’s smile is genuine for the first time all night.

***

Drinking with Steve at a bar is a bad idea he realizes too late. Because at any other bar he'd already be spilling his guts about his hopeless crush on Steve to the other patrons, and since he can't do that he ends up downing more beer and scotch and everything in between, and then it gets harder and harder to keep his stupid mouth shut, and on and on and on until Steve is practically carrying him back to their apartment, halfway to tipsy himself. And then they’re in the apartment and Bucky doesn't have a bottle to distract himself or to keep his mouth shut. And this is not good, very not good because drunk Bucky is stupid Bucky and stupid Bucky thinks stupid things like he could actually be with Steve.

Stupid Bucky says things like, “I hate her, Steve.”

And Steve, perfect Steve, is helping him to the bedroom. “Who, Mary?” He asks, slurring just a little too. Bucky scoffs.

“Buck, you don't gotta lie with me. I know you like her.”

“No, I don't,” Bucky whines. “Hate ‘er.”

“Ya don't hate her,” Steve says quietly.

“No, but I don’ like her the way you want me to.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Steve asks and they both flop onto Bucky's bed with a thump. And then Steve is right on top of him, face just inches away and Bucky aches. And usually this is where he would catch himself and joke it off, act like he doesn't dream about holding Steve close and never letting go.

But he's drunk Bucky right now, and drunk Bucky just nuzzles his nose against Steve's cheek instead. “You're prettier than her, Stevie,” he whispers, and Steve's breath hitches, exhales like a sob.

“C’mon, Buck, don't be mean,” Steve protests weakly, voice breaking on his name.

“I'm not,” Bucky hisses, shakes his head as best he can pressed against Steve like this. “I'm not, I'm not, I swear, Steve.”

“Bucky-”

“You're so pretty, Stevie,” Bucky breathes, and presses his mouth to Steve's skin, sloppily kissing across his cheekbone. Steve squirms on top of him, ducking his head, but he doesn't pull away, just rests his hands on Bucky's shoulders, presses his fingers like a brand into Bucky's skin.

He kisses up to the tip of Steve's nose, huffing out a small laugh when it makes Steve wrinkle his nose. Bucky lets his head fall back to the pillow, stares up at Steve, sighs all lovelorn because his brain is pretty much done with self restraint and maintaining dignity. “God, you're gorgeous.”

Slowly, like that way he won't scare Steve off, he reaches out his hand, is somehow able to focus enough to gently brush his fingertips along Steve's jaw, nudge his chin up (because you can't push him around, not Steve). He's blushing, dark pink that probably spreads down his neck and chest and dear Lord, Bucky wants to see how far down it goes.

“Jesus,” Bucky says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look at you, Stevie. Fuck, if you ain't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.”

Steve's flushes darker, but his eyes get hard.

“Stop,” he whispers, forcefully, and Bucky's blood runs ice cold for a second. “Look, I know I ain't-”

“Shut up, pal, shut up,” he hisses. “God, half the time I think you and everyone else on the planet must be half blind if none of you see how fuckin’ perfect you are, Steve.”

“But-”

“Shhh,” Bucky says, leaning back up, kissing soft sucking kisses onto the smooth skin beneath Steve's jaw like that’ll explain it better. Steve whines in the back of his throat, and Bucky can feel his entire body shiver with it.

“Look at you,” he says breathlessly. “How can you not- look at your jaw, how strong it is and sharp and perfect.” He kisses back and forth along Steve's jawline, spending extra time lavishing attention on the skin behind Steve's ear when it makes him nearly mewl.

“And-and your ears,” Bucky continues, because if he can't get Steve to listen to him maybe this'll work. He sucks Steve's earlobe into his mouth, adding a slight press of teeth. Steve gasps, jumping slightly and burrowing deep into Bucky's arms. “I don't think I've ever seen a more perfect ear, Steve,” he breathes, lips grazing the sensitive shell of his ear.

“Buck, you're not-”

“Shhhh, I'm not done,” he interrupts, burying his hand in Steve's hair. “I'm not done just yet, okay, pal? Let me finish.”

Steve nods, just barely, his pulse is racing.

“Great, where was I?” Bucky sighs, pressing a few chaste kisses to Steve's cheeks. “When you blush, gosh, Stevie, I don't think there's a prettier shade of pink out there. There it is, just like that. And your nose, it's all thin and perfect, and this little bump right here.” He punctuates the word with a kiss. “Since you can't seem to go a single week without getting your nose punched in, but it's beautiful, too, shows how brave you are, how fucking strong you are, Steve. And your eyes.” Bucky starts on the left, kissing across his brow one, down to his eyelid, which flutters closed, before repeating on the right. “Steve, I can't even get started cause then we'd be here all night, but God, you've got the whole world trapped in your eyes. And your eyelashes are longer than any dame’s I've ever seen.”

He knows there's only one thing left, and Steve knows too because his eyes are wide and trained on Bucky like a rocket, and he pulls his head back slightly. His hand stays on Steve's jaw, thumb drifting up to hover, millimeters away from Steve's lips. He tried to keep his eyes trained on Steve's, but he can't help but glance down.

“Steve,” he whimpers, feeling suddenly, painfully sober and immeasurably terrified. “Steve, I-”

And Steve's eyes glaze over, and he leans forward letting his mouth brush against the pad of Bucky's thumb for a moment before he presses forward, nipping gently at his skin before pulling Bucky's finger into his mouth.

Bucky damn near blacks out, biting off the embarrassing part of a moan. Steve stares at him, quirking an eyebrow as if encouraging him to continue, and the flash of uncertainty in his eyes helps Bucky find his voice again.

“And-and your m-mouth, Stevie. Fuck, they're, Jesus, s-so red, so beautiful, baby. I-I just know they'll be so s-soft and plush and God, Steve, Steve, please.”

And Steve, brave as he always is, leans in the rest of the way, letting Bucky's thumb slip out of his mouth.

His lips are as soft as Bucky's always imagined, a little too pursed when they press against his, but sweet, gentle. Bucky’s hand slides to the back of his head, burying his fingers in Steve's hair so he can tilt Steve's head into the best position. He deepens the kiss slightly, drawing Steve's lower lip between his, reveling in the feeling of their spit slick lips sliding across each other.

When he pulls back, Steve eyelids are half lidded, his eyes burn into Bucky's with something he's never seen in Steve before, and his lips are red and swollen. Bucky traces them with a mind consuming focus, inhaling sharply when Steve tilts his head to kiss at Bucky's palm and down to his wrist.

“Steve,” he breathes, and then Steve is leaning in again, his arms twisting around Bucky's shoulders, his weight settling over Bucky's chest. The rest of his words are muffled by Steve's mouth on his which is for the better because the last thing drunk Bucky needs to do tonight is confess his undying love for Steve.

So instead he makes the first good decision all night and shuts up, just wraps his arms around Steve's waist and kisses him back, slow and languid until everything else fades away.

***

The issue with drinking away your problems is waking up with all of them in the morning plus a raging hangover.

Plus all of the consequences for the things drunk Bucky did.

Like Steve, sleep warm and pressed up against him, face tucked into the corner of Bucky’s neck, fists tight in his undershirt. They’re still in their clothes from last night. Well mostly, since his jacket and blouse are on the floor and Steve is shirtless, but they didn't even make it under the sheets.

He's seen Steve shirtless before but never like this, so relaxed and soft and close. He's so beautiful it makes Bucky's chest tight, and without thinking he leans forward, pressing his mouth to Steve's damp hair.

He catches himself and pulls back immediately, staring up at the ceiling in horror. He's not stupid, he knows Steve kisses him last night, but he also knows it's not that simple. Steve was drunk last night, maybe not as drunk as Bucky was but drunk nonetheless and coming off a bad date and drunk, so drunk.

He feels like he can't breathe. He can't pass last night off as drunken shenanigans, not with everything he said.

He slips his arm out from under Steve, slowly, so slowly, and gently pries Steve's hands off him. He tumbles out of bed carefully, not to make a single noise or jostle anything. Glancing back down, at Steve who sniffles in his sleep, curls up in the warm spot Bucky left, he wants nothing more than to crawl back into the bed, pull Steve close and kiss him awake.

But he can't, he can't, he can't. So he leaves. Walks out the door like he isn't leaving his whole heart there on top of the blankets. Leaves a note on the fridge because if he acts like nothing happened, maybe Steve will think that nothing happened.

And then he's out in the street and he can breath again. For a moment he can't help but glance around. He always thought the world would look different after he kissed Steve. It doesn't. It's the same, but something in Bucky's gut has changed.

He knows one day he'll lose Steve. He knew they never had a chance at any sort of happy ever after, even if Steve wanted one, which for all intents and purposes, he doesn't. But now he's overwhelmed by all this hope, festering in his chest, reminding him of the heavenly feeling of Steve's mouth on him, the way they breathed in each other's air, trapped in a perfect little bubble, the small expanse of Steve's waist bundled in his arms.

He needs a cup of coffee.

The automat is crowded, every little noise going off like a bomb in Bucky's head, but he stomachs through it, finding an empty seat and burying his face in his hands. When the waitress brings around his coffee, black as the overheating pavement outside, he gulps down the whole mug without pausing for air. It scorches his tongue and his throat, but he doesn't even care.

“Morning, darling,” Mary drawls from behind him, warm breath spilling over the shell of his ear, making him jostle the whole table. He's always amazed by how silently she can walk with heels on. “You're looking ravishing today.”

He glares over at her, and she throws her head back and laughs. She strolls around the chair and plops down in his lap, tossing her curls over her right shoulder.

“What brings you out so early on a Sunday?” She asks, and reaches for his coffee, pouting when she sees he's finished.

“Sorry, doll, I'm really not in the mood,” he huffs out, waving at the waitress for a refill.

“Trouble with the Mrs?” She asks wryly.

“Hey,” Bucky snaps. “Don't-”

“Oh, calm down. I'm not implying anything about dear Steven’s honor,” Mary scolds, tapping his nose. “Jeez, you're no fun hungover.”

“Steve and I aren’t-”

“Oh don't lie to me, too, Barnes,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Steve and I aren't like that,” he hisses, glancing around the diner, but no one seems to be paying attention. “Leave it alone.”

“Gosh, I would, but you look so miserable,” Mary says, sounding halfway serious. “What did you do anyway?”

“Nothing. It's none of your business anyway,” Bucky says, crossing his arms.

“Sure, but who else are you going to talk about boys with?” She challenges.

“I don't need to talk about boys.”

“About Steve.”

“I don't-”

“Jeez, whatever it is, he'll forgive you,” Mary says. “Steve absolutely adores you. He won't stay mad long.”

“We’re not-”

“Barnes, you're like a broken record,” she sighs, hopping off his lap and to her feet. “Let me know when you've gotten the stick out of your butt and you want to have some fun.” She kisses his cheek, no doubt leaving a bright red mark behind. She turns on her heels and clacks right along, disappearing out the front door.

He downs another cup of coffee before leaving.

***

Steve is awake when he gets back to the apartment, and he almost regrets it, almost wishes Steve was still in bed and he could reset this entire day, curl up with him and act for a few seconds like any of last night meant something.

But instead he whistled mindlessly like it was any other morning, like he didn't have the worst hangover in the world, like he didn't know what Steve's skin tasted like. He drops a newspaper in Steve's lap, places an extra coffee on the table in front of him.

“God, you're a lifesaver,” Steve groans, hands wrapping his hands around the cup and pulling it to his chest. He laughs, runs his hand through Steve's hair as he passes by the back of the couch. This doesn't hurt, being around Steve is like second nature.

“More like a hangover connoisseur,” he replies. “Drink your coffee.”

Steve shakes his head, swears under his breath when the coffee is too hot. Bucky stares for a second, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing happens, and he walks to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Steve calls after him, and his heart leaps for a moment. “Are we going over to your family’s for dinner?”

Right, it's Sunday. God, he has to act like this is a regular Sunday.

“Yeah,” he says, hopping the pause wasn't too long. “I think ma’s making meatloaf, too.”

He finishes putting away the milk and walks back into the living room. Steve is taking a swig of his coffee, and he moans, eyes closing, head falling back against the pillows. Bucky swallows hard.

It's gonna be a long day.

***

Bucky Barnes is not a drunk, but he knows what they're like. Unfortunately all too well.

Becca greets him and Steve at the front door with an apprehensive look.

“Dad’s here,” she says, staring at Bucky intently. The fact that he's not at a bar must mean that he's run out of money from his weekly beer stash, which means this week was a Bad Week, and Bucky knows from the first sixteen years of his life that does not bode well. Steve knows it too, and grips Bucky's wrist tight, squeezes briefly like a warning before they walk in.

He's gotten into very few fights with his father, mostly because he's never around, but all of them have happened on a Bad Week. This is not going to end well.  
From the moment they all step into the dining room, his father glances over at them and scoffs.

“Rogers, seems you’re not dead yet,” he says gruffly, like it’s unfortunate, and Bucky’s just about ready to go now, halfway to raising his fists until Becca rests a hand on his shoulder.

“One hour,” she says quietly, pleading, and Bucky takes a deep breath and nods. Their father isn’t a violent drunk, and in that way he’s one of the better fathers in the neighborhood, but arguements escalate and things get… loud, for lack of a better word. It’s not pleasant to say the least.

Steve’s jaw is clenched, hands balled up tight, but he just sits down at the table, slowly like every single move pains him, and it probably does.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” Steve grits out, and Bucky aches to reach out and grab his hand, kiss away the line of wrinkles on his forehead.

Bucky sits down too, right between his father and Steve like he’s standing in for a shield. It works for a while, too, as his mom brings out the food and they all make short polite conversation. It’s tense, uncomfortable, but better than anything else that it could be, so Bucky is-

“So I hear from David that you and that Spellman girl are getting pretty cozy,” his dad says, and he prays that that’s all he’s going to say on the matter because Steve is right there, and he knows it doesn’t matter, it’ll never happen, but he doesn’t- “Says he saw you two all over each other at the automat this morning.”

Shit, shit, shit. He spent ten minutes in the bathroom at the automat wiping Mary’s lipstick off his cheek before he went back to the apartment, because the idea of showing up after last night like that-

He wants to look over at Steve, wants to see if he’s upset, even though rationally he knows there is no reason for Steve to be upset, not when he doesn't feel the same way Bucky does (he was drunk, he was drunk, he was drunk). But looking over would acknowledge that Bucky thinks Steve should be upset and-

“She's a good girl, if a little bold, a girl of means. They’ll be some uproar about trying to marry up, but not too bad. Hell, you would be,” his dad continues.

“Who says anything about marriage?” Bucky spits out before he can think. His father snorts darkly.

“Well, you certainly can't expect to live with someone two sneezes away from a deathbed for the rest of your life,” he says. “It's about time for you to get serious about your future, start dealing with the right sort of people.”

Bucky’s on his feet in an instant, chair skidding backwards, hands in fists on the table. His blood is boiling, hot like he's seconds away from exploding.

“Bucky,” Becca hisses at him from across the table.

“George,” his mom says sternly.

And Steve sits, very, very still, staring at his plate of meatloaf like it's the most captivating thing in the world.

“You do realize everything you do reflects on me,” his father says because he's clearly not done, just wants to keep barreling on like Bucky isn't moments away from lunging across the table to strangle him. “Every day I have to deal with whispers about you and that twig all around town, pulling him out of fights and buying shit for him with your money like he's your goddamn wife or somethin’. Excuse me for getting excited that for once I get to hear about you doing something good for a change.”

“You know what-” Bucky spits, and then Steve is standing up, slowly, standing rigid and staring down.

“I just remembered, I need to pick something up from the grocers before tomorrow morning,” he says, voice empty. He's either extremely angry or extremely hurt, and Bucky can't get a read on him, can only watch helplessly as Steve places his napkin neatly on the table and pushes his chair in.

“Steve,” he protests weakly.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Barnes,” he says.

“Steven, you don't have to-” his mom starts.

“It's alright,” Steve insists. “I'll see you at h- the apartment, Buck.” And then he's rushing out of the room, and Bucky tries to call after him, but the front door closes gently and echoes like a gunshot.

There's a silence, where he's not sure what he feels or what he should do. His gut says to go after Steve, but he's still seething, glaring at his dad like that’ll fix anything. His father sits there, glaring right back, daring Bucky to press him so he can spit more awful nonsense about Steve even though he's not even here anymore. Maybe it didn't even matter to him that Steve was there to hear or not.

“You know, next time you plan to actually be home, let me know so I can steer the fuck clear,” he snarls, shoving his own chair in and stepping away. “Thanks for dinner, ma.”

When he walks out of the house, he's a man on a mission. He needs to find Steve, needs to… Well, he's not sure what he’s going to do once there, but he needs to do something, needs to apologize, wants to hold him close and kiss his forehead and assure him that none of that was true, not a single word.

He all but dashes back to the apartment, even thought, what if he didn't go to the apartment, what if he's out looking for a fight, what if he's getting his face beat in right now, what if he, what if he?

“Steve,” he almost shouts, throwing the door open. “Stevie, pal, are you in here?”

“Jesus, Bucky, you’ll wake the whole building,” Steve sighs, stepping into the bedroom doorway.

“Thank God,” Bucky breathes out, shutting the door gently behind him.

“I'm sorry for rushing out like that,” Steve says, eyes darting to the ground. “I just- You didn't have to follow me, gosh.”

“No, hey,” Bucky protests immediately. “You didn't do anything at all, Steve. I'm sorry. I should have said more, but Becca really didn't want a big fight, and I-”

“Buck, don't. You didn't have to-”

“Yes, I did. That was terrible, Steve. He shouldn't have said that shit, and I'm sorry.”

“Well, he didn't say anything that wasn't true,” Steve grumbles, scuffing his shoe on the floor.

“Steve, every word that came out of his mouth was a pile of horseshit.”

“I know what everyone says, Buck,” Steve snaps, shoulders tensing. “I know what people think of me, and I know that all I do is drag you down with me. He didn't say anything that's not already said all the time. I know what I am, and I won't pretend that I'm not-”

Bucky's feet are moving without his consent, marching him right across the apartment and over to Steve who seems to be curling more and more into himself with every sentence.

“Not to me,” he whispers. “Never to me, Stevie.” It's like his brain jumped ship, and suddenly his hands are cradling Steve's face, and he's leaning down, anything to get him to stop talking, and he's kissing Steve, again, a little forceful, trying to communicate every ounce of protest the one way he thinks Steve will listen.

He gets around two seconds of bliss, two seconds of hope, and then Steve is freezing, pushing at his shoulders and Bucky returns to the real world. He jumps back, flinching at the pained expression on Steve's face.

“Don't,” Steve says, voice cracking.

“I-” Bucky starts, but he isn't sure what to do or say, how to write this off as a joke, a mistake. There's nothing, no excuse, no brush off. He kissed Steve. Again. And he's not drunk, he's not dying, he has no explanation other than the truth, that he wants to do this every time Steve is sad, that he dreams about this too often.   
He turns on his heel and darts out of the apartment.

Steve doesn't even call after him.

***

He comes back at three in the morning, not sober, but not nearly drunk enough. He doesn't trust drunk Bucky around Steve anymore. Hell, he barely trusts sober Bucky around Steve now.

But Steve is already in bed, curled around a tangle of sheets, eyes slightly red rimmed.

God, he fucked up. But he can make sure it never happens again, just has to work a little harder to keep himself together, to not get blinded by impossible fantasies. He and Steve will never happen the way he wants, but that's okay. He has Steve in his life, and he won't risk it again, not for a single moment of hope.

He passes out on the couch to give Steve some space. Steve is in the kitchen when he wakes up, preparing a cup of coffee. Their eyes meet from across the apartment and for a moment, he can't read the look in Steve’s, just that it makes his whole body hurt. Steve's gaze darts away for a moment, down to the counter, before he takes a breath and looks up again, giving but a smile that's small and weak, but genuine.

They can act like nothing happened.

***

It's fine.

He's fine. Steve's fine. He and Steve are fine.

Well, okay, he’s gone out drinking the past four nights so he's not super fine, but it's fine. In all honesty, he should vow to never drink again, since that's what got him into this mess in the first place, but he let himself hope and now he has to deal with the consequences, so drinking.

Steve doesn't come drinking with him, which is good. So he can get a little tipsy at one of his favorite bars and not have to worry about anything, just feel gloomy and sad and let one of the guys at the bar run his fingers through his hair until he feels a little better.

It's night five of this, and he's only had two drinks so he's not that far gone yet, just eying the guy next to him and wondering if tonight's the night he'll be able to give up and just have some fun for once. Something in his stomach constricts painfully at the thought.

Outside there’s a loud thud, a shout, footsteps scuffing on the pavement. He's out of his seat a second later, not entirely sure why, aware that half the bar is staring at him. His Steve is Doing Something Reckless alarm is tingling in his spine, and he still doesn't know how he knows, but he knows.

He walks out as calmly as he can, eyes darting back and forth across the street the second he's outside. And sure enough, there's Steve, standing in the mouth of an alley on the other side of the block, blood gushing from his nose. He's calling out to him before he think, crossing the street without even looking.

He doesn't realize Mary's there too until he nearly walks into her. She standing right next to Steve, pressing a handkerchief to his nose and she's smiling, delighted. Bucky knows he's in trouble.

“Hello, James,” she purrs, eyes sparkling, and she knows where he just came from. Steve probably does, too. Shit.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, looking sheepish, voice muffled by the cloth covering the bottom half of his face. Well, if Steve does know, he's not mad. Not that he would be, knowing Steve.

Okay, okay, priorities.

“What happened?” He asks, glancing around for whatever lughead hurt Steve.

“Oh, it was so heroic,” Mary announces, hand on her chest. “This brute refused to leave me alone, practically accosting me, and then all of a sudden Steve appears like a knight in shining armor to come to my rescue.”

“Well, you were the one who got all the punches in, ma’am,” Steve admits, shuffling on his feet like he always does when he's embarrassed.

“Oh please, that was nothing,” Mary dismisses, dabbing at the remaining spots of red on Steve’s face.

“You alright, pal?” Bucky asks, pushing down the instinct to take the handkerchief from Mary, clean Steve up himself.

“Yeah, I'm just fine,” Steve assures him, slowly, eyes tight with confusion.

“I'm just dandy as well,” Mary adds, pouting playfully at him. He raises his eyebrow, glancing over at her, and she chuckles, blinking innocently at him, like she isn’t reading into his soul and playing around with it.

“We should get you some ice for your nose,” Bucky announces not glancing away from Mary, locked in a silent staring contest with her wide brown eyes.

“I’m alright, Buck, really.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, a warning to not lie about these things again. Without even looking, he can tell Steve is rubbing the back of his neck, anxious, not wanting to show weakness, not wanting to upset Bucky.

“Do you want us to walk you home, Mary?” Steve asks, all polite and genuine concern, and Mary grins, amused, at Bucky, in a way that makes his stomach drop with dread.

“No, that’s alright, dear,” she says, slowly turning to Steve. “I’ll get by just fine.” She steps close to Steve, right up against him, voice lowering to a whisper. “Thank you, though, for the daring rescue.” And she kisses him.

But see that’s not the problem. That’s not what makes Bucky’s teeth grit and his pulse pound and his face go red.

It’s that she rests her hand on his cheek lightly, lets her fingers smooth across his temple, slip back to tangle in his hair. It’s that she kisses him slow and gentle and tender, all the ways Bucky has dreamed of kissing Steve, but will never get to. It’s that Steve’s eyes flutter closed, eyelashes fanning out against his cheekbones, knees trembling, inhaling sharply.

It’s that Bucky would give anything he owns, just to be able to kiss Steve like that, for one chance at that, and she does it like it’s nothing.

She pulls away, steps back, and looks over at Bucky and smiles triumphantly. Steve stares after her, eyes wide and lips stained cherry red from her lipstick.

“He’s all yours,” she says, like a dare, like if she can do it, he can do it, like kissing Steve is some sort of a game. Steve seems to realize Bucky’s there all of a sudden, eyes darting over to him, horrified and apologetic, like he did something wrong.

“Bye, Mary,” Bucky snaps, grabbing Steve’s wrist tightly, because he can’t grab Steve’s hand, and tugging him away from Mary’s side and down the street.

The walk, well, stomp, back to the apartment is a blur. Steve trails along behind him silently, his pulse pounding beneath Bucky’s fingertips. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, doesn’t know what he’s going to do, just knows that he wants to get back to their apartment, to privacy, so he can… what? What is he going to do? What can he possibly do?

They reach the apartment before he even has time to figure out what he's going to say. Though once they're inside it doesn't seem to matter since Steve beats him to the punch.

“Buck, Buck, I'm so sorry. I don't know why- I didn't mean to- That guy was buggin’ her and I just wanted to help, Buck, honest,” he stammers, eyes pleading, hand tightening around Bucky's.

“Steve, no,” he protests, even though there it is, a perfect out. But he looks so hurt, so worried. “I'm not mad at you, pal.”

Steve frowns, mouth still red, smeared with Mary’s lipstick, and something inside Bucky breaks, gives up. He's tired of hiding and lying and pretending. He's tired of drinking away his problems and still aching. He's tired of still having goddamn hope build up inside of him.

“I'm mad at her,” Bucky says. “I'm mad at her, not because she was kissing someone, because she was kissing you.”

“Buck,” Steve breathes, stepping closer, not away, and Bucky hopes. “What're you saying?”

He leans in slow, giving Steve a chance to pull away, but he doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't. Bucky moves his hand to the back of Steve's neck, stroking his thumb back and forth gently, and pulls him in.  
Steve moans in the back of his throat, hands coming up to rest on Bucky's waist and he pushes forward, kissing Bucky back eagerly, enthusiastically.

He's moving fast, urgent, frantic, like they're on borrowed time, but Bucky slows him down, coaxing him to move at Bucky's pace, part his lips just slightly. Bucky closes his lips around Steve's, swipes gently at them with his tongue until all traces of sticky makeup are removed. Steve seems to notice what he's doing, and presses closer, opens his mouth further, makes small encouraging noises against Bucky's mouth.

Bucky presses forward against him, shuffles them forward until Steve's back hits the door. He lets out a grunt, pulls away, lets his head fall back against the wood and gasps for air.

Shit, he should have thought of that even if they were going slow. He kisses down Steve's neck in apology, open mouthed and just this side of desperate.

Steve lets out a soft moan, and Bucky's hands slide down to grip at his hips lightly. Steve's hands wind up tangled in his hair, curling his fingers in and tugging lightly, and then he's hoisting himself up, wrapping his legs around Bucky's waist. Bucky wobbles slightly, but gets his hands under Steve, presses him into the wall for support. Steve tugs his head up, dive down to catch Bucky's lips between his this time, goes slow without prompting and tender and gentle in a way that lights something in Bucky's chest on fire. He whimpers brokenly, tries to press himself even closer against Steve, to feel every inch of him. Steve just draws him in, with his hands, with the heels of his shoes digging into Bucky's back until they're pressed as flush as they can be.

  
"Steve," he whines, ducking his head down an inch to take a breath. Steve moans a little in response, kissing Bucky's nose, along his upper lip, as Bucky struggles to take in a deep breath but only for a few seconds, impatient as ever.

  
Steve nips at his lower lip, the slight sting of his teeth before he's smoothing over it with his tongue, placing small kisses over the area. Bucky groans and reaches his hand down, tugging on Steve's button down, pulling the tails out of Steve's trouser and slipping his hand under the hem, resting lightly against Steve's warm skin.

  
This time Steve tugs his head away, places a hand on Bucky's shoulder. He doesn't pause, just kisses at Steve's cheek, strokes circles into his skin with his thumb.

  
"Buck, Bucky wait," Steve pants, pushing at his shoulder.

  
Reality slams into him like a freight train and he steps back, letting Steve drop to his feet.

  
"God, I'm sorry," he says, staring at Steve in shock. "I didn't-"

  
"Buck," Steve repeats, shaking his head. He reaches out, hand cupping Bucky's cheek, tugging his back closer, not as close as before, but enough that he can feel Steve's warmth against his skin. "I just... why? I don't get it."

  
"Why what?" Bucky asks, frowning.

  
"Okay, so the first two times you were drunk and you felt bad for me, I get that. And see, I thought you just knew how I felt, which you obviously do now, and you were trying to make me feel better, cause you felt bad and everything. But hell, Buck, I should be trying to make it up to you, not the other way around."

  
"Steve," Bucky sighs, and he can't help but lean down and press a quick kiss against Steve's forehead, try to smooth out the frown there like he's always wanted to. "There hasn't been a single day I've know you that I've felt bad for you."

  
"But-"

  
"I love you, Steve. I'm in love with you. Have been for years, pal. And I just get so mad, when anyone acts like you aren't the most amazing thing, it drives me nuts. And I was drunk, sure, but that didn't change anything about how I feel or say anything that wasn't completely true.”

“Bucky,” Steve says softly. “I… What about Mary? I can't- She's good for you. You could have a future with her. You deserve to have something like that. A life. A family. Not working yourself sick at the docks and wasting half your paycheck on medicine and covering the rent for me.”

“I don't want that though,” Bucky replies firmly, shaking his head. “I want you. I love you, not Mary, not anyone else. Any kind of future with you is the one I want, nothing else. I'll take whatever you're willing to give me, Steve, and I'll never need anything else. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Steve whispers, looking down. “I- I love you so much, Buck. How can I not? You’re you, and I’m just- I'm just me.”

“Steve, you're not just anything. And God, you don't even know the amount of times I've felt stupid just thinking I had a chance with you because I'm just me. But you know what, you're you, and I'm me, and I'm in, all the way. If you want me, you've got me.”

Steve lunges forward, crashing their lips together. Bucky staggers back a step, adjusting to the weight of Steve in his arms.

There's no more slow and gentle, just fast, hard, and desperate. Steve hops up again, wrapping all his limbs around Bucky, clinging to him like a koala. Bucky laughs into Steve's mouth, as much as he can with Steve tugging on his lower lip.

“Wait, wait,” Steve says, pulling back again, and Bucky groans, setting Steve down. “Whiskey. We need whiskey.”

“Thought we were saving that for a special occasion?” Bucky says, resting his forehead against Steve's.

“What do you call this?” Steve whispers, kissing Bucky's ear. He pulls away, and darts off to the kitchen.

They end up on the floor, pillows and cushions from the couch all around them, kissing heatedly in spurts, passing the bottle back and forth. Bucky props himself on his elbows, on either side of Steve's chest, Steve's legs wrapped around his. He rests his chin on Steve's shoulder, presses his lips to Steve's jaw, watching enraptured as his lips wrap around the mouth of the bottle.

“Fuck,” Bucky sighs, kissing down Steve's bared throat. “I ever tell you that's the hottest thing I've ever seen.”

Steve blushes, sets the bottle down next to them.

“Think that would've solved a lot of problems if you had,” he says, tangling a hand in Bucky’s hair.

“Shut up,” Bucky snorts, dragging his hands up Steve's sides to the top button of his shirt. “This good?”

Steve nods, pressing Bucky's face down into the hollow of his throat. He fumbles with the first button, the second, and presses sucking kisses onto the new skin.

“God,” Bucky says, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. “Look at you.”

Steve grins, a little self deprecating and a little bashful. Bucky kisses Steve's chest, right over his heart, feeling his heart pound slightly off beat, his chest rising and falling.

“Love you,” Bucky breathes against his skin. Steve pulls him closer, buries his face against the top of his head.

“Love you, too.”

***

They don't leave the apartment for the entire weekend, making up for lost time or not wasting any of the time they have, maybe something in between. Bucky's pretty sore when he leaves the room Monday morning, kissing Steve's sweaty forehead, dodging his attempts to drag him back into bed.

“Tonight,” Bucky says quietly, a promise. Steve grumbles, rubbing at his eyes, and Bucky lets himself spend a second memorizing Steve like this, golden in the early morning sunlight. Only there's probably no reason to memorize it. It'll be waiting for him, tomorrow morning and the morning after.

He walks out of the apartment, grinning like a fool. And that's how Mary finds him, walking to work with a skip in his step.

“Hey, cowboy. Looks like someone took my advice,” she says, fingers tapping against a bruise on his neck. (It really shouldn't have been much of a surprise to find out that Steve was a biter, and now he has a collage of evidence all over his body.) He pulls up his collar, not even bothering to blush.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. “From what I remember, advice isn't what you were giving out.”

“Oh, don't act sore,” she scolds. “It's not like I didn't help you get your act together.”

“So what? You had this whole master plan?”

“Plan’s too formal, but just about,” she admits. “I couldn't kiss you to get Steve to do something; he’d’ve just felt guilty. You, on the other hand, can be pretty, hmmm…protective.”

“I resent that.”

“Of course you do.”

“But what's in it for you?”

“Well, Bucky Barnes, I'm scandalized. Can't I just enjoy some community service?”

“Community service?”

“Oh, please, if I hadn't stepped in just a little, you and Steve would've been pining over each other for seventy years, and that would've gotten very tiring, very fast.”

“Why do you even care?”

She smiles, almost rueful. “You and I aren't so different, Barnes,” she says, jerking her chin at something across the street. He follows her line of vision to Susan O’Johnson, sitting on bench, nose deep in a book. He glances over at Mary, raising an eyebrow. She shrugs sheepishly.

“Well, good luck,” he says. She laughs and pats his cheek.

“You're sweet as sugar, Barnes.”

“Too bad I'm off the market.”

“Oh, I know, and I'm not done with you just yet. Susie and I might need some strapping young men such as you and Steve to take us out on the town,” she says, and with that, stalks off towards the crosswalk.

“You're too smart for your own good, Spellman,” he calls after her, and she just waves him off.

“Hey, Susie,” she calls, and the brunette looks up, face lighting up.

Bucky shakes his head, and continues down the street, starts whistling to himself.

***

There's a knock on Steve's apartment door. He startles, dropping his phone. It's an unfamiliar sound, and if that's not a testament to his lonely life in this century, he's not sure what is.

Sam’s in DC with his family for the weekend, and Natasha doesn't knock.

“Sharon?” he asks, reaching for the pistol Natasha taped to the bottom of his coffee table. It's unlikely that Hydra or anyone else he's pissed off would knock, but… Well, it's been a strange few years.

“Not exactly,” a gruff voice replies, and Steve's heart jumps. He races to the door, throwing it open, like Bucky might vanish like the ghost he's been if he doesn't get there fast enough.

But sure enough there he is, standing there in the middle of the halls, smiling weakly. His hair is damp, like he just showered, face clean shaven, dressed to impress. Steve gapes at him, frozen in place.

“Sorry, pal. Expecting some lovely dame and you're stuck with my ugly mug,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Been stuck with your mug for years, Buck. Never had a complaint.”

Bucky's smile turns a little stronger.

He's holding a grocery bag, Steve notices, from a liquor shop a few blocks away, in his metal hand, almost hiding it behind his leg.

“What's that?” Steve asks gently.

“Whiskey,” Bucky says hesitantly. “Wasn't sure- Maybe we have something to celebrate?”

Steve's eyes widen, like a question, a confirmation that this means what he thinks. Bucky nods.

“Don't think all the whiskey in the world is enough for this, Buck,” he says, and steps back, letting him into the apartment.

They're on the couch, sharing the bottle, not bothering with cups, not bothering with pulling the cushions to the floor either. The bottle’s disappearing fast since they've barely said a word, just staring at each other, fingers brushing every time they pass the whiskey.

It's halfway gone, and Bucky has to tilt his head back to take a sip, and something in Steve aches. He reaches out, palm brushing his cheek. Bucky watches him intently, not pulling away.

“God,” Steve breathes, running his thumb across Bucky's cheekbone. “Look at you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, and you can find me on tumblr at applejuiz, for more superhero nonsense. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


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